


Vanishing Point

by Welfycat



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Community: angst_bingo, Fairy Tales, Gen, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-25
Updated: 2011-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 00:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welfycat/pseuds/Welfycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer has received six envelopes and still has no idea who is sending them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vanishing Point

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Angst Bingo Hiatus Challenge; Prompts: Diaries and Journals, Fairy Tales and Folklore, Insomnia, and Stalkers.  
> Content Notes: Stalking.  
> Author Notes: Takes place late in season 6, general spoilers for the arc. Brief references to Minimal Loss and Revelations.

Spencer looked up from the journal sitting in his lap as soon as he heard the rustle of something being pushed under his front door. His gun was resting on the table next to his bed and Spencer picked it up and did the swift check that was an automatic behavior after seven years with the FBI. He was ready long before he reached the front door to his apartment; his bare feet and wrinkled pajamas not ideal for chasing someone down but otherwise a model agent in stealth and speed.

Ignoring the familiar manila envelope sitting on the tile of the entryway, Spencer unlocked his front door and swept the hallway from left to right. He wasn't particularly surprised to find it empty, not in the middle of the night, and he'd yet to catch a glimpse of the person who had been leaving the envelopes. After standing still for a moment he decided that whoever it was hadn't stayed, or if they had they were surveilling him in ways he couldn't detect.

He stepped back inside his apartment, locking the door before bending down to retrieve the envelope. He walked down the short hall back into his bedroom, setting the gun down and tucking his feet back under the blankets before opening his journal once more. The entry was already partway finished; a few thoughts on recent cases, a notation about the severity of his headaches, and a short list of things that he wanted to research in the next few weeks.

For the most part his journal was less for himself and more for his team or his mom, and the presence of the person who was leaving the envelopes had only reinforced his need to leave something behind. He wrote in a form of short hand that would be difficult, but not impossible to decipher. The only people he knew who would be able to manage it were Garcia and maybe Jason Gideon. Emily had been skilled at cryptography, but she was no longer part of the equation. Spencer trusted that Garcia would know what was important to pass on and what she'd keep to herself, though he never wrote down anything that would be truly damning. He'd kept enough secrets in the course of his life to know that some things were best taken to the grave.

Pulling the cap off his pen, Spencer noted the date and approximate time of arrival - 2:33 AM. Envelope number six, with no markings on the outside, hand delivered. Spencer set the hardbound journal on his pillow, the pen resting in the fold, and undid the string that held the flap of the envelope closed. The book inside slid out easily. It was thin, the covers made of colorful paperboard and the illustration on the cover immediately identifiable.

"Hansel and Gretel," Spencer read aloud as he looked at the book. The book itself was older, obviously either well worn or second hand, and belonged to the same series as the five other books he'd received. He noted the title in his journal, along with the note that it belonged to the _Supernatural Opponents_ category in the Aarne-Thompson classification system of folktales, most specifically under the subcategory of _The Children with the Witch_. He wasn't sure what use the information would potentially be, though four of the five previous books had fallen either in the _Supernatural Opponents_ or _Supernatural or Enchanted Relatives_ categories.

The books were part of the same series that Spencer remembered having as a child, though for the most part they'd sat untouched on his shelves. By the time Spencer was reading, he had quickly moved into the classic literature that his mom had been reading to him since before he could speak, and simple children's books with bright pictures hadn't held any appeal. He had taken a few minutes after receiving the second book to wonder if the person sending them was actually aware that Spencer had owned copies of these books as a child, but had dismissed it as a coincidence. Spencer found himself hesitating to call the person a stalker, because though he - Spencer was relatively certain it was a man after doing an analysis of the handwriting - fit the criteria for stalking under the definition of unwanted observation and attention, Spencer wasn't actually frightened or distressed by the envelopes.

Of course, if it had been someone asking his opinion on what they should do upon receiving multiple pieces of correspondence indicating they were being observed, Spencer would have advised them to go to the local police department and make additions to the security of their home or go stay with family or friends. But there was no point in him going to the local Virginia PD and he wasn't prepared to bring this to the team either. Morgan had been distant and grim since Emily's death, Hotch had been away from the team more and more often, and Rossi had seemed distracted and unusually quiet. Spencer still wasn't sure how he felt about JJ being back; he was endlessly grateful, and knew that it hadn't been her choice to leave the team, but that didn't make it easier to adjust to her suddenly being there when Emily wasn't. He didn't want to worry Garcia, and he knew that she would worry because she wouldn't be able to do anything to help in this case.

Spencer opened the book to the inside cover, the scrawl of untidy handwriting in a thick pen reaching out to him from the same pastel pattern that dominated the faded binding. The handwriting itself seemed familiar; he hadn't been able to connect it with a person yet and was uncertain if he was just confusing a recollection of someone's handwriting with the amount of time he'd already spent with samples of this particular handwriting. "Doctor Reid," Spencer read. Over time he'd discovered that even though his best way of understanding information was to read it, something about hearing the words out loud changed his connection to them. He could feel the rhythm of the syllables, notice the hidden patterns of rhyme when they occurred, and the weight of each stop and break seemed more significant.

"Last time we discussed the notion of the path in _Little Red Riding Hood_ , the warning of the kindly grandmother, as well as the representations of nature and animals and what is lurking in the woods." Spencer paused and noted in his journal the delusion that there was a dialogue and continuing conversation between himself and the sender. "This tale particularly caught my attention. The path, a trail that is self created but destroyed by nature, and of course the complication of the woodsman and the step-mother. I trust that you'll have a rebuttal to all but one of my interpretations, as you so frequently do."

Pausing again to note the language was both familiar and academic, though familiar address was very common in most communication from stalkers, Spencer examined the strokes of the pen and the indents in the paper. It was as if the writer was pressing down hard with a dying pen, even though the thick strokes made it clear that the ink plentiful. The writing probably hadn't been drafted beforehand, there were places where they had clearly stopped to think about their next words, but there was nothing crossed out. Confident and intent, Spencer decided; this was someone who had no doubts about what they were doing or saying.

He took his time, turning each page and examining the original text of the story as well as the illustrations before reading the notes that had been made. On some pages there were only sentences and words that had been underlined, on others there were notes and analysis written in the margins. Spencer had always found this particular fairy tale to be unsettling; children abandoned in the woods by their families, smart enough to rescue themselves the first time but unable to resist the lure of the witch, rescuing themselves and returning home to discover that they were safe like nothing had ever happened and the cruel stepmother that had cast them aside gone from their home. On the page where the stepmother is convincing the woodcutter to bring his children into the woods, there's a note pressed in deep into the page that read: "Doctor Reid, were you aware that in the original Brother's Grimm version of the tale both of the parents are biologically related to the children?"

"Yes," Spencer answered, noting again where writer's pen had pressed deep into the pages. "And the stepmother disappears when the witch is killed by the children. Both of the threats are maternal and the subject of feeding or eating, with the children presenting an obstacle in both cases, is central to the theme. The birds eat the breadcrumbs, stranding the children in the woods - nature is a threat to their survival, as is the nature of the world a threat to the survival of their family."

He wasn't comforted when he turned the page and found a similar, if less developed, analysis of the breadcrumbs Hansel and Gretel leave behind. He remembered his mom in her bed, ink on her sheets because she's marking papers when she was still well enough to teach at the university. "More detail," she'd say, her pen rising to her face as she thought and then lean in to mark the section. "You must develop your arguments, Spencer. Always pay attention to the detail, to the way the words are selected. What was said is just as important as what has been left unsaid."

Spencer looked back to the remarks under the breadcrumbs passage; the writer had only discussed how the breadcrumbs stranded the children, the removal by the ever-consuming nature that surrounded them. Nothing about the way the birds enable traveling and movement within the tale - he can't help but think of the jet when he thinks of flight and travel, and of Gideon when he thinks of the birds. Gideon would know what type of birds were illustrated in the book, maybe even what type of birds the Brother's Grimm might have had in mind when they wrote the tale.

Continuing through the story Spencer found most of the notes fairly uninspired. The tone of discourse, as if they were seated in the same room and remarking on passages together, continued, though he realized that the writer had never gave specific responses to what Spencer might have said in return. Whoever the writer was might be watching him closer than he was comfortable with, but they didn't know how he thought and how he would respond. He had no doubt that the writer had read the various papers he'd published, occasional allusions to various principles of behavioral psychology made it clear that the writer had at least a basic understanding of the subject.

The page where Gretel pushed the witch into the oven was blank, the large block text standing by itself with the bright illustration of Gretel and a pair of legs sticking out of the front of an old-fashioned oven. Spencer considered it for a moment, thinking back to the five other books to remember if any of the pages had been left blank. After decided that they hadn't been, Spencer thought of the various comments he would make, adapting his voice to that of the writer's as he had many times over the course of his work. Cleansing fire, maybe, or a fire that could have created the house that lured Hansel and Gretel in to begin with.

He turned the page, his eyes immediately drawn to the clear letters that were written under the illustration of Gretel freeing Hansel from his cage. "Where is your Gretel, Doctor Reid?"

His chest tightened as he took a startled breath and he sat up straight. Skipping the text of the story, Spencer looked to the page next to it. "Who will save you now?" was written underneath the picture of Hansel and Gretel fleeing the witch's cottage, carrying the jewels that would allow them to live with their father again.

Spencer flipped through the rest of the pages, all of them blank of any additions. He closed the book, the illustration on the front now seeming mocking rather than just colorfully morbid. The writer was referring to Emily; if he was supposed to be Hansel, the only female figure in his life who might be seen as sisterly who was gone was Emily. What was it that Emily was supposed to have saved him from? She had saved him before, from Cyrus in the cult compound, and had helped to rescue him from Hankel, and that wasn't counting every time they ran side by side into buildings containing bombs and serial killers. Somehow he didn't think that was what the writer, his stalker, meant.

Uncapping his pen, Spencer closed his journal and placed the book back inside the envelope it had arrived in. He gathered the envelope, his journal, and his gun and placed them all inside the safe in his closet, feeling oddly vulnerable crouching down barefoot in the bedroom of his apartment. Typically he considered himself to be relatively not paranoid considering what he saw in his work everyday, but tonight he walked through his apartment and checked all of the windows as well as latching the chain on his front door. It wouldn't do him any good if his stalker decided they wanted in, but this way he might hear something break as they entered.

Leaving the light on his kitchen and in the bathroom, Spencer removed his glasses and climbed back into bed. Even without the brief rush of adrenaline, he hadn't been expecting to get much sleep that night. He hadn't ever truly slept well, though no one in the BAU was immune to case induced sleepless nights. He'd definitely noticed an upturn in dark circles under eyes since Emily's death. He leaned back against his pillows, letting the waves of exhaustion crash over him as his eyes refused to fall shut.


End file.
